The Swimmer (30 page)

All he could do was go back into the living room. Turn on the Xbox that they’d set up to pass the time and play a few more rounds of Halo 4 or Modern Warfare 3. Just empty his mind. No thinking about the past, no thinking about the future. Just push down the buttons on the control and give his virtual enemy a taste of his angst.

He’d just sat down at the console and clicked past the first menu in Halo, when he heard Kirsten, who had the morning shift at the binoculars on the front porch, raise her voice.

‘Code Orange,’ she said in a loud, restrained tone into her Bluetooth headset, which everyone besides George was equipped with. ‘I repeat: Code Orange. Identification seventy per cent. Suspected target plus one embarking a small vessel at the pier. Take your positions.’

She’d barely finished her call before the house exploded with life. The stairs rumbled as Reiper’s men threw themselves into the hall, most of them already dressed for combat. In the hall they pulled on their black Gore-Tex jumpsuits and winter boots. George got up and walked slowly out toward Kirsten on the porch. She was leaning over the binoculars and reporting continuously into her headset.

‘The vessel landed and is already backing away from the dock. Two targets embarked onto the bow and seem to have hit the deck. The vessel is a small fishing boat. Approximately eighty horsepower. Estimated maximum speed of twenty knots. A person in the wheelhouse. No visible weapons. Standby for bearing and course.’

At first George didn’t notice that Reiper had crept out onto the porch through the other door and was pulling on a thick, black jumpsuit. He already had a black knit hat rolled down over his slush gray eyebrows.

‘You’re not a hundred per cent that was Walldéen?’ he said quietly.

‘Not a hundred,’ Kirsten said, without looking up from the binoculars.

The front door slammed. Through the front porch glass George saw two black-clad men with duffel bags jogging across the grass down toward the dock that belonged to the house. The small covered motorboat that had been moored there since they moved into the house had already rumbled to a start.

‘But almost?’ Reiper said.

‘As I said, seventy per cent. The target was dressed like a young guy, and it’s hard with details in the snow. But the person was in the company of a woman who could be Gabriella Seichelman. They were hidden behind the gas station. And I didn’t see the boat until the last second. It came in at a weird fucking angle with its lights switched off.’

Reiper seemed to be thinking, but for no more than a second.

‘We can’t afford any more mistakes. We need to be one hundred per cent sure before we intervene,’ he said and pressed a button on his headset. ‘Start Plan B and await team leader. Do not intervene under any circumstances until we have complete identification.’

He turned to Kirsten again.

‘Well then,’ he said. ‘We’ll follow them via radar and see where they go. I assume they’re smart enough not to hide at Walldéen’s grandparents. It doesn’t seem like it was their boat picking her up either. Do we have any info on who it might have been?’

Kirsten shook her head.

‘Nothing. As you know, we haven’t received any information at all about that.’

Reiper nodded, and when he turned to walk down to the boat, he seemed to catch sight of George. Without so much as acknowledging his presence, Reiper turned to Kirsten again.

‘And you’ll keep an eye on our Swedish lodger?’ he said. ‘Josh has prepped the bedroom.’

‘It’s cool,’ Kirsten said, without looking up. ‘We’ll follow protocol.’

And with that, he was gone. George followed his silhouette for a moment through the windowpane until it disappeared into the snowfall. A minute later he sensed more than saw the motorboat slowly leaving the dock and gliding out into the steel gray water with unlit navigation lights.

‘George,’ Kirsten said, turning to him. ‘We’re entering into an operational phase, and it’s in your best interest that you don’t know what happens. Believe me. So I’m going to lock you in the bedroom.’

George sighed. He hardly had the energy to protest. The anxiety in his chest was sucking all the life out of him.

‘Seriously?’ he tried anyway. ‘Kirsten, damn it, is that really necessary?’

She stood up and pointed to the door out to the hall.

‘Don’t be a baby,’ she said quietly, her head tilted to one side. A smile at the corner of her mouth. ‘We don’t have all day.’

‘Whatever,’ George said, and shrugged.

Arkösund, Sweden

It wasn’t until the boat had turned around 180 degrees and started heading straight out from the pier at Arkösund that Gabriella dared to turn her face to look at Klara. They were both lying flat on the damp plastic deck. Gabriella could sense the waves below them. She bounced around as the boat started to gain speed. The wet snow ran down her cheeks.

Klara met her eyes. Gabriella could see her lips moving, but her voice was drowned out by the sound of the accelerating engine.

‘What?’ shouted Gabriella.

Klara raised one hand and pointed toward the wheelhouse.

‘Let’s go in, I’m freezing to death out here!’ she shouted.

They got to their knees and crawled across the deck. The door opened from the inside, and they stumbled into the small wheelhouse. A huge man wearing well-worn rain clothes enveloped Klara in a bear hug before they even crossed the threshold. He looked at least ten years older than them, but Gabriella knew that he was almost the same age as Klara. Maybe those extra years could be blamed on his large bald spot, together with the fact that he’d retained his thin, white-blond hair around the sides. It was an unusual hairstyle nowadays, devoid of vanity. He was six and a half feet tall and must’ve weighed well over 200 pounds. Klara disappeared into his vinyl-coated embrace.

‘What the hell, Klara!’ he said in a thick Östergötland dialect. ‘What sorta mess have you gotch yerself into now?’

Klara disentangled herself from his arms and bent over to look through the aft valve.

‘I’ll explain, Bosse, I promise. Later. First we need to get somewhere safe. Did you see if another boat was waiting when we arrived?’

‘Naaaay,’ he said, and pressed the throttle farther down as they left the bay behind.

The boat bounced on the small waves as if running over corrugated steel.

‘But it ain’t easy to see much a’ anything in this weather.’

Klara nodded. Through the aft valve she saw the snowfall intensifying in the dim, gray light of day.

‘Bosse,’ she said. ‘This is my best friend, Gabriella.’

Gabriella wiped the melted snow off her face and held out her hand, while struggling to stay upright in the oncoming storm.

‘I’m Gabriella,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’

Lovely to meet you? As if she were at a party with Klara’s old friends instead of on an ice-cold boat fleeing from God knows what.

Bosse pulled her to him and gave her a hug like the one he’d given Klara.

‘Truly!’ he said. ‘Hope it wasn’t you who’s dragged Klara into all this trouble.’

‘No, you couldn’t really say that,’ said Gabriella. ‘The opposite, really.’

‘Damn,’ Bosse said and turned around. ‘You’ve been flyin’ under the radar your whole life, Klara. No trouble in school, good grades, law school, the whole shebang. And now they’re sayin’ you associate with terrorists? And you used to rag me for selling a little moonshine in Sanden?’

‘I guess I’ve lost the moral high ground now,’ Klara said. ‘But speaking of radar, you don’t have any do you?’

She looked around the small cabin.

‘Radar? Don’t you think I’ll find my way through the islands on my own? How many times have I driven you out here? You yourself could do it in your sleep. Why the hell would I need radar?’

‘Not for navigation,’ Klara said. ‘But I’d like to check if we’re being followed.’

‘Followed?’

Bosse raised his bushy eyebrows and shook his huge head in disbelief. He took a good look at Klara.

‘What’s happened to your hair?’

‘She left it in Paris, apparently,’ Gabriella said. ‘Where are we going anyway?’

‘To Bosse’s inheritance,’ Klara said. ‘It’s called Smugglers Rock. I don’t even know if that’s its real name. His family has a little cabin out in the archipelago. They were smugglers, right Bosse? And that was where they kept their goods? Bosse’s family have never really been ardent supporters of this country’s alcohol monopoly.’

Bosse smiled proudly.

‘Quite the contrary,’ he said. ‘If it weren’t for the monopoly, we’d have no market. Not for my homemade stuff or for Grandpa’s Russian contraband. He used to call it the warehouse. Klara and I’d go out there in the summertime, right Klara? Do some fishing.’

Klara nodded.

‘And I went out there to study during my second semester in Uppsala. There are definitely no distractions. Just a tiny island. It feels like you’re closer to Finland than to Stockholm when you’re out there.’

‘It’s a bit rough out there. No water or electricity,’ Bosse said. ‘But I dropped off supplies yesterday so you should do all right.’

The farther out in the archipelago they got, the more barren and wild it was. The lush islands in the inner archipelago began to give way to steel gray rocky islets with low shrubs and brush. No red houses anymore, just hard, cold sea and granite.

Klara stood for a long time, studying the contours of the islands.

‘Home?’ Gabriella said and took her hand.

A tear in the corner of her eye was quickly wiped away. Klara nodded.

‘Wouldn’t you rather go to Aspöja?’ Bosse said.

‘I can’t risk it,’ replied Klara. ‘If there’s anyplace that’s being watched it has to be Grandma and Grandpa’s house. But no one knows about Smugglers Rock. And there’s no cell coverage, no broadband, not even GPS works very well out there. It’ll give us time to think things over.’

They continued in silence. Gabriella sat down on the floor and leaned back. It was remarkable that Bosse felt no need to cross-examine Klara about what she’d been through. Instead, he seemed satisfied that she was there. There was a sense of security in that silence, she thought as she struggled to keep her eyes open. The hypnotic song of the engine and monotonous stuttering of the boat over the waves drove her inexorably toward sleep.

She was awakened by Klara’s voice.

‘Bosse,’ she said. ‘Full back, damnit. There’s smoke coming out of the chimney on the island!’

Gabriella sat up, immediately wide-awake. Klara was standing next to Bosse with binoculars in front of her eyes. It certainly looked like smoke coming out of the chimney of the little cabin, barely discernible on the tiny island in the archipelago.

Arkösund, Sweden

Locked into the bedroom like an animal. A tiger in a cage. Or not even that. More like some tame fucking lapdog that would do anything for his dinner, his walk, his master’s affection. George lay on the bed with his clothes on, pulled a blanket over himself, and buried his face in a pillow.

For the first time in a very long time, he felt like crying. How had he ended up here? Just a week ago, he’d been on top of the game in Brussels; his only worry was how annoying spending Christmas with his family in Stockholm would be.

And now. Now he’d give an arm just to call his old man. If he’d had a phone, he would call immediately and tell him everything. About Reiper and his gang. About the cocaine. About Gottlieb and the stupid mistake he’d made in his immature pursuit of quick, easy money. Money! What a fucking joke.

‘I’m coming home,’ he would sob. ‘I’m coming home, and I’m going to make things right, make you proud.’

The old man would be disappointed, sure. Everything George had done was the complete opposite of his family’s ideals. But his father would understand. Or if he didn’t understand, at least he would forgive? Surely he would? George sobbed long and loud.

‘Fuck!’ he screamed into the pillow. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuck!’

How much longer would this go on? Reiper and his gang were out in the archipelago somewhere, obviously chasing what—with ‘70 per cent probability’—was Klara Walldéen. He didn’t doubt that they would find her and that, assuming it was Klara, they’d kill her too. Just like they had apparently already killed at least two other people. As far as he knew. They didn’t seem particularly affected by it. The dead were just
collateral damage
. Negligible victims in a war that he had no idea who was fighting or why. How many others had they murdered? How many others had become collateral damage?

And what would happen after that? When they came back? Would they just shake hands and thank George for his good work, before paying his rate into Merchant & Taylor’s account, plus 20 per cent to him personally? After everything he’d seen and heard?

Slowly it dawned on him. The truth had been staring him down the whole time, and he had refused to see it. If there was anyone in all this who could be called collateral damage, it was he. Oh my God! They were going to kill him too. Had they known that from the start? Had Appleby known? That there was a risk? Had they just sent him straight into the jaws of the devil? That dinner at Comme chez Soi, the final meal of a dead man walking?

George sat up in bed, his head spinning. He rose to his knees and leaned against the windowsill and pulled on the latch, but it was held fast by a huge padlock. Outside, the melting snowflakes ran in rivulets down the windowpane. Could he break the glass? He leaned forward, looking down toward the ground. Third floor. It was five or six meters down to the lawn. If he somehow managed to climb out and hang on to the windowsill, it would still be four meters down to the ground. Kirsten would hear the glass breaking and she wouldn’t hesitate to kill him as he limped through the gray, windy morning with a sprained or broken foot. With another sob he let go of the latch and buried his face in his hands.

The house was completely quiet. The only sound was the rising wind howling over the roof tiles. George opened his eyes again and looked around the small, flowery bedroom. Two unmade beds. A dresser where Josh had unpacked all his underwear, workout clothes, and jeans in neat piles. Restless, George got up and went through the drawers. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. Whatever it was, it wasn’t among Josh’s Calvin Klein underwear and Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirts.